


The Walking Wounded

by igrockspock



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Getting Together, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7755781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Claire leaves her job and loses her friend, Matt’s the one who ought to be there for her, but Foggy's the one she can actually lean on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walking Wounded

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Foggy/Claire romance" at the Daredevil kink meme and "here i am expecting just a little too much from the wounded" at stainofmylove's Daredevil ficathon.

Matt Murdock owes Claire, at the very least, a cup of coffee, but it’s Foggy Nelson who actually buys her one.

She'd walked halfway home from the hospital before she had to stop on a park bench, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of her. Her friend had died. There might have been _zombies._ The hospital administration wanted to cover it up, and she'd threatened them before she walked away from her job. And god, the medical malpractice. She'd hidden patients in some half-abandoned wing of the hospital on the word of her so-called friend the vigilante. If they really wanted to make all this go away, they could forget the zombie ninjas and pin everything on her. _Psych patients go berserk in construction zone, reckless nurse to blame._

Her hands are shaking while she scrolls through her contacts. Her anger is cooling, dread is building in the pit of her stomach, and she doesn't want to be alone. But who the fuck is she supposed to call about a day like today? 

Foggy answers on the first ring.

***

She’s still staring at the pavement when he finds her, so the first thing she sees is the green and white Starbuck’s cup in his hand. 

“Earth to Claire,” he says. “I thought you might need this.”

She takes the cup from his outstretched hand and blinks. “You brought me coffee?”

Matt had refused to even drink the cup she’d brought him.

“Actually, I thought about bringing something stronger, but there are these annoying open container laws,” he says. He pats down his pockets, pulls out brightly colored packets of sugar and a couple plastic containers of creamer. “I didn’t know how you took it, so I brought a little of everything.”

Claire’s not going to cry. She hadn’t cried about the children or Matt or the zombies, and she’s sure as fuck not going to cry over a cup of coffee. But the tears are pooling in her eyes anyway. She barely knew Foggy. She’d only called him because she thought she might need a lawyer. But he’d found her on a park bench, and he wanted to make sure her coffee was exactly right.

***

She calls Foggy that weekend, and he answers on the first ring again. Like he’d been waiting for her call, but she knows that’s not true.

“They served you on Saturday afternoon?” he asks, his voice full of sympathy and tinged with humor. “They should’ve at least saved that for Monday morning. Those are supposed to be shitty.”

“No, nothing like that,” she says, laughing a little in spite of herself. Then she swallows. What exactly had she been planning to say? 

“No lawsuit is good news,” Foggy says, and then the sunshine slides out of his voice. “Is Matt okay?”

“No. I mean, yes. Well, actually, I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since -- anyway, I wasn’t calling about him.” God, how did this suddenly get awkward? She takes a breath. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d be up for a drink?”

Foggy’s answer is quick and sure. “With you? Absolutely.”

***

She picks an unpretentious bar on the edge of the Meatpacking District, and Foggy slides into the seat next to her promptly at eight. She panics a little. Was the bar too quiet? Did it seem too much like a date?

Would it be a bad thing if it did?

Foggy smiles when she looks over at him, so she says the simplest thing she can think of. “How are you?”

He smiles again, then shakes his head. “Not gonna lie. I’ve been better.”

“I have a feeling I already know the answer to this question, but what’s wrong?” she asks, settling down on her stool. She’d been lonely this week; usually her days are filled with people.

“I’ll give you a hint. It starts with M and rhymes with ‘at.’” He winces. “That was not very clever.”

“Who says you have to be clever all the time?” she asks, and she thinks he looks relieved. He’s kind, and smart when he needs to be. Good in a crisis. He doesn’t need to perform, at least not for her. She bumps his knee underneath the bar. “I know what he did to me. What did he do to you?”

Foggy smiles wryly. “Uh, where to begin? Flubbed a case. Lied. A lot. Possibly cheated on my friend. Committed felonies. Ruined our partnership. At least, that’s the short version anyway.” He takes a long drink of his beer and shakes his head. “You ever wonder why people like us let assholes into our lives?”

Claire thinks about her not-quite-affair with Matt, and Mike who kept all the secrets. And an embarrassingly long chain of bad choices stretching all the way back to college. She doesn’t know who she should blame more: herself or them.

Or maybe she can have compassion for them all. “Maybe we’ve been expecting too much from the wounded,” she says.

When Foggy slides his stool closer to hers, she does the same.

***

Foggy volunteers to walk her home, and she says yes without thinking about what that might mean. It’s raining, little drops that fall softly on her skin. In the cool air, Foggy seems to radiate warmth.

When they get to her building, she stops. She knows she doesn’t want the night to end. She doesn’t know what she plans to do about it.

“Thank you,” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting up into a grin.

“Nope,” Foggy says, and she frowns.

“I think the traditional answer is ‘you’re welcome.’”

“Yeah, but traditionally, people say thank you when you’ve done them a favor.” He shakes his head. “Hanging out with you is not a favor, Claire. It’s a pleasure.”

“Is thank you an acceptable response to a compliment?” she asks.

“Now that I can allow,” Foggy says. He swallows, licks his lips. “Look, Claire, if I’m reading this wrong, you just go ahead and hit me or tell me fuck off. Whatever. It’s happened plenty of times before. But I just want you to know, I’m not wounded. I mean, I _am_ wounded. I just lost my best friend. But I’m not wounded like he was, with the lying and the felonies and the complete and total failure to appreciate really amazing women. And god, I’m babbling. Claire, please, put me out of my misery.”

“I know you’re not like him,” she says quickly. Her heart is beating fast, like she’s thirteen again. “I’m not looking for someone perfect, Foggy. Just someone who can be kind, even when they hurt.”

“I can do that,” Foggy says, and the sureness of his answer takes her breath away.

“So can I,” she answers.

She doesn’t know who kisses who first, only that their faces are drawing closer together, and she’s not surprised by how warm his lips feel against hers. She catches his hand and invites him inside.


End file.
